For My Lady's Heart

  He should have tried to appeal to Melanthe's welfare if he wished to entrap her. Her desires, her ambitions. But he had admitted that he did not know them.

  He asked her what he could do, as clumsy and open as Cara in her folly.

  It did not seem a great thing, this offer to carry a falcon, for a manslayer, a lovely boy with the soul of a demon. If he was lying, and she trusted him—then she walked open-eyed and helpless into Gian's clasp.

  Three things Allegreto dreaded. Plague and his father, and Gryngolet. He knelt in the church and offered to defy two of them. For lying.

  Or for love.

  "Thou needst not carry her," Melanthe said. "I trust thee."

  His lips parted; that was the only sign he gave of elation or relief.

  "If thou art mine," she said, "then attend close to me now. Thy father did not have Gryngolet, nor ever has. I flew her at Saronno, all that week that I supposed thee in Milan. She was not in Monteverde for him to use in such vice. It was another bird obtained to daunt thee, we must assume—and contemptible abuse of a noble beast."

  His jaw twitched. She deliberately disdained his father's horror as a mere offense against a falcon's dignity, to shrink it to a thing that he could manage.

  "Gryngolet has hated thee because I have not been over fond of thee, I think." She shrugged. "Or haps she dislikes thy perfume. Change it."

  He closed his dark eyes. He drew a deep breath into his chest, the sound of it uneven.

  Melanthe stood up, the beads sliding through her fingers. She turned and left the church, pausing after she had made her obeisance. "Allegreto," she said quietly as he rose beside her from his knee, "if we fear him to a frenzy, we are done."

  He nodded. "Yea, my lady. I know it well, my lady."

  * * *

  She had not seen Bowland for eighteen years. Against spring thunderclouds, the towers did not seem as monstrous huge as she remembered, and yet they were formidable, the length of the wall running a half-mile along the cliff edge to the old donjon at the summit. Its massive height stared with slitted eyes to the north, defying Scots and rebels as it had for a hundred years and more.

  Strength and shield—her haven—and Gian held it of her. She had not sent word. She arrived at the head of a guard provided by the abbot when she had revealed herself to him. Their approach had been sighted five miles back, of that she could be sure, for Bowland overlooked all the country around, with signal towers to extend the view. He would know by now a party came.

  And he had surmised who it was. A half-mile from the gatehouse, a pair of riders sped out to them, bringing breathless welcome, and a few moments later an escort of twenty lances showing signs of hasty organization trotted to meet them, wheeling to form proud flanks.

  A few drops of rain spattered her shoulders, but she did not raise her hood. She rode over the bridge and into the immense shadow of the barbican with her face lifted and her head bare but for a golden net.

  Woodsmoke and cheering shouts greeted her as her rouncy jogged into the open yard. The lower bailey swarmed with people and animals, as if every member of the hold had dropped his task to come. They wished to see her, she knew, their mistress returned.

  Among the English she recognized no one, but that was beyond reason to expect. All her old servants, her parents' men, they would all be changed beyond knowing. But a babble of Italian and French equaled or outpaced the native tongue, and there were ones she saw of Gian's knaves whom she knew better than she cared to, and her own familiar retinue awaiting—her palfreyour to take her horse, and her chaplain, and yes...Cara, smiling, with a trapped rabbit's fright in her eyes.

  Melanthe ignored her. As she dismounted, Gian came striding from the donjon.

  He was grinning, his arms open. His houppelande of crimson flared behind him, guards of gold embroidery skimming the ground, and his spiked harlots impaling the air elegantly with each step.

  He went low to his knee, lifting the hem of her gown. "God be thanked for His might. God be thanked." He made the cross and touched his lips to the cloth.

  "Your Grace," she said. "Give you greeting."

  He sought her hands as he rose, kissing her eagerly on cheeks and mouth. "Princess, you know not what I have endured."

  He tasted of perfumed oil, his beard dressed neat, blackened by dyes of cypre and indigo. She offered her hand.

  "I was the one lost in desert," she said lightly. "Ask what I've endured. Depardeu, I have not heard a word but in English these three months."

  "Torture indeed!" He took her arm and led her up the stairs into the donjon. "You shall tell me all, when your ladies have done with you. Come—oh, come, my sweet." His fingers tightened on her suddenly. He halted, gathering her hands in his and kissing them.

  "Gian," she said softly.

  He straightened. "Christ, I am undone, to treat you so." He released her. "Go to your women. Call me when you will."

  With a swift turn he walked away from her. At the screen he passed Allegreto, who bowed down with his forehead to the very floor tile. Gian did not glance at him. He crossed the hall and disappeared into a stair.

  * * *

  It was not until she was in her bath, with the silk sheets hung about and Cara setting a tray of malvoisie wine on the trestle, that the full scope of Melanthe's defeat came upon her. She had held herself insensible to what she did; refused to think backward instead of forward, to move in weakness rather than strength.

  But she had lost, and lost beyond all her worst imagining.

  Gian held her. And Bowland that was to have been her security, her refuge where every servant was safe and known and no alien countenance could be concealed. She had thrown away the quitclaim to draw him off, she had rid herself of Allegreto and Cara only to have them back, she had played bishop and queen and king—and lost. Bowland. Her safety, her freedom. And more—but she could not think of him; she would break if she thought of him, and Gian would see.

  Cara washed her hair. Melanthe could feel the maid's unsteady fingers—she wanted to scream at the girl to summon her nerve, for one weak link was enough to kill them all. Instead she took the washcloth and wiped soap across her mouth, preferring the flavor of it to Gian's taste.

  "I hear thou art repentant," she said coldly. "What proof canst thou give me of it?"

  "Oh, my lady!" Cara whispered. She bent her head, her wet hands clenched together. "I'll do anything!"

  Melanthe gazed at her. "Hardly reassuring. What of thy sister?"

  The girl shook her head. "My lady, what am I to do? I would give my life for her if it would make her safe, but it would not. Allegreto has said—that he has tricked the Riata for a little time—I know not how, but I was to account to them by Ficino, and within the day of when he came here, before he tried to seek me out, he...he must have caught a candle in his clothes, my lady, and...there was a fire. It was a terrible accident, my lady. All said so."

  Melanthe hid the jolt of discovery about Ficino in a brief laugh. "Thou hast found thyself a useful friend in Allegreto, it would seem."

  The maid kept her eyes lowered. She did not answer.

  "Thou wilt go between us. He must stay near his father and away from me," Melanthe said. "He has told me I may trust thee, which is why I do, and the only reason, since thou givest me none other. But remember that Gian is here, and at thy least indiscretion I will give thee to him, and even Allegreto could not save thee then."

  "Yea, my lady. I could not forget it, my lady."

  * * *

  She received Gian in the chamber that had belonged to her father, with its paintings of jousts and melees all along the plastered walls, a newer wainscoting below them that she did not remember and a line of diverse shields hung above. Again it seemed not so vast as it ought, the colors duller, the curtained bed smaller and the red and blue ceiling beams not so high as she recalled. But her father's chair still stood near the chimney, with a cushion in it that was shabby and almost worn through, an imperfect embroidery of the Bowland
arms that Melanthe recognized at once.

  Every year since her marriage she had made him a new cushion, and sent it. This one had been the first. Some others lay about the chamber, early efforts, when she had been so sick for home that she had spent hours at the task. In latter years she had chosen elaborate designs and caused the best craftsmen in the city to execute them in expensive materials, but she did not see any of those richer pillows in the room.

  She was glad they were not here. The thin cushion worn through in her father's chair was better comfort and courage. She did not rise from it as Gian entered, but only indicated a lesser chair drawn up near.

  He bowed to her. Melanthe went through the ritual of ordering spices and drink. While a servant waited at the door for any further charge, they exchanged greetings of exquisite courtesy. Gian sat down.

  "My lady's father left his holding in good order, may God assoil him," he said in French. "I've seen naught but signs of the most excellent management here since he passed to his reward."

  Gian was a master. Word of that compliment would soon spread throughout the bailey.

  Melanthe smiled. "I think you are a little amazed, sir. Haps you thought we lived as savages here in the north."

  "My dear, none such as you could have sprung from savages, or from any but the most noble blood."

  "I told you that my English estate was well worth my journey. This hold is but a fraction; I have numerous manors to the west and south, and five good castles, garrisoned all. I've made homage for them to the king, but there's much work yet to be done—I must meet my vassals and tour my holdings. I'll be truthful with you, my lord, and hope that you did not come sallying north in the expectation that I would return immediately."

  He was silent, looking at her in an unfathomable way. She tilted her head and put a question in her glance. She had worn a high-necked gown and dressed her hair in a wimple of purple silk, so that the pulse in her throat would not show.

  "I would have thought you well occupied at home," she added, defying caution to make a swift attack.

  He grinned, lifting his eyebrows. "And well you should, my lady. After such a kindness as you did me with your quitclaim."

  He appeared quite at ease, even amused. But of course that could hide anything. She shrugged. "A mischief, verily—but not too great, I hope. I regret I had not time to warn you, but I was pressed upon too closely, and then of course—this fearful adventure I have experienced—"

  She left it there, without supplying details that might entangle her.

  "We must thank God that you're safe," he said. "These other matters are trifling. The Duke of Lancaster has graced us with a company of men and lawyers in Monteverde, to press the claim you gave his father. My son tells me you have met the duke?"

  There was the heart. His real concern, in a casual question tagged to the end of his words. Armies might move and lawyers argue over the paper claim she had given away, but the real threat she still carried in herself and her marriage. Lancaster was ambitious and powerful, with the throne of England behind him; if already he sent a force to assert her quitclaim, how much more aggressive might he be with the princess of Monteverde as his wife?

  "Indeed yes," she said, "I stopped at Bordeaux until the new year. A gracious and hospitable man, truly. His brother the prince is sore ill, I fear, and so the duke takes all the burden of Aquitaine upon his own shoulders. I'm surprised he had the resource to pursue any business in Monteverde."

  The refreshment arrived, saving her from saying more. Gian watched as the English steward tasted the wine and spiced cakes, and then his own man did the same. When the drink was poured, Gian dismissed both servants with a flick of his hand. It was the first usurpation of authority he had taken—not having been so tactless as to lodge himself in the lord's chambers or issue orders to her attendants. Melanthe made no remark on it, but she did look deliberately at his hand and up at his face.

  He smiled. "Forgive me. I'm an impudent fellow—but how shall I not be anxious to have you to myself?" The door hasp clanked shut like the bolt on a prison. For a long moment he sat with his wine cup in his hands, gazing at her. "My life has been a joyless desert without you."

  "Come, Gian—we're alone. You needn't exert yourself to love-talk now."

  He rubbed his thumb over the rim, looking down at it. "It's no exertion," he said softly.

  She realized that he wished to play at love-amour. She thought of his perfumed kiss, and a terrible loathing of the course she must take came over her. He was no Ligurio, to leave her in peace in her bedchamber, but the man who had made sure by murder that she took no lovers. He had waited for her—without a legitimate heir, for his own enigmatic reasons, for a logic she had never plumbed, nor ever would.

  "It would be exertion for me," she said. "I am too weary now to trade compliments."

  His eyes lifted. He smiled and drank. "Then I'll waste none upon you, without my fair share in return. Tell me of your dread adventure, if you cannot praise my manly beauty."

  "Nay, I should not like to disappoint you, if it is compliments you desire," she said. "Shall I say that your own son could not flatter that elegant garment better?"

  He did not move, but the pleasure seemed to flow through him, from a slight twitch of his spiked slipper to a deeper expansion of his chest when he inhaled. "Do not say it, my dear lady, if it would tire you too much."

  "I am weary in truth, Gian." She nibbled idly at a cake. "I really don't wish to hold a long conversation."

  He rose abruptly, walking to the oratory, her father's little chapel where light from a narrow window of stained glass dyed the altar and rood. He was handsome enough, in his own way—older than Melanthe by near a score of years and yet lithe as a youth—an Allegreto with the sureness of age and power on him. Gluttonous indulgence was not his vice; he lived austere as a monk but for the fashions in clothing that he liked to set. For their interview he had abandoned the staid floor-length robes in favor of the single color of Navona: white hose and a short white houppelande. Often he embellished the milky ground with gold alone, but now he was embroidered in spring flowers, his voluminous sleeves longer than his hem. It showed the lean legs of an ascetic—and his masculinity—very well.

  "Concede me just a little description of your ordeal, my love." He smiled. "Your escort comes from an abbey, they tell me. Have you been safe all along in a religious house, then, while our Allegreto tore his hair?"

  "Why, yes—has he not recounted to you?"

  "He seems to have become shy." Gian leaned against the carved arcade of the oratory. "Gone to earth somewhere, like your English foxes."

  She did not know whether to bless Allegreto for his forethought, or fear that Gian had indeed questioned him and now wished to compare their stories. "He has a great fear of your displeasure," she said, a description so patently inferior to the actuality that she found herself returning Gian's smile with a wry curl of her own mouth.

  "Still, a son should not hide from his father's just wrath. Or the world would become a wicked place indeed, don't you think?"

  She gave him a surprised look. "Wrath? But what has he done?"

  "Failed me, my dearest lady. Failed me entirely, when he allowed this calamity to befall you. And acted beyond himself in another small matter, not worth mentioning. If you should come across his burrow, you would not be amiss to tell my little fox that delaying the chase only puts the hunter out of temper."

  "If you mean that he failed in my protection—surely you did not expect him to take on a pack of murdering bandits?"

  "Ah, we come now to the bandits." He examined a painted and gilded angel's face carved at the base of the arch. "Was it a large body of outlaws?"

  She shrugged. "I think it must have been. I was woken out of a sound sleep to flee."

  "You're very easy about it, my lady! Were you not dismayed?"

  She made a sound of impatience. "Indeed no, I was so delighted that I stayed to offer them wine and cakes! Truly, I am not eager t
o live the experience again only for your entertainment."

  He bowed. "I must ask your pardon. But these outlaws should be brought to justice."

  "That has been taken care of, you may believe."

  He raised his brows. Melanthe looked back at him coolly, daring him to put her to an inquisition, or hint that she did not rule here in her own lands.

  "Alas, I arrive too late to rescue you, and now I cannot even take your revenge. A paltry fellow!" He drained his wine. "Hardly the equal of this mysterious green captain of yours, I fear."

  She leaned back in her chair and gave him a dry smile. "Verily, not half as holy."

  "Holy? I was told he is a knight of some strength and repute."

  "Certainly he is. I retain only the best for my protection."

  "But where is he now, this paragon?"

  Melanthe turned her palms up. "I know not. I believe a great hand comes down from heaven and lifts him up to sit among the clouds. Haps he prays and parleys with angels, which is as well, for his conversation is too pure to be borne on earth, I assure you."

  "Even when he shares a bed with you, as I'm told?"

  "A bed!" She stared, and then laughed. "Ah, yes—a bed. At that delightful manor house, you mean. But how come you to hear of that farce? Most notably holy when he shared a bed with me." She grimaced. "My ears rang with his prayers."

  He observed her a moment and then chuckled. "My poor sweet, you have had a hard time of it, haven't you?"

  "Worse than you know! I fell from the rump of his repellent horse and broke my cannal-bone. Three months have I sojourned in the most contemptible little priory, among nuns! The prioress could barely speak French and did naught but pray for me. She and my knight got along excellently."

  He laughed aloud. "But I must meet him, this knight. And the prioress, too. Such intercessions might save me a little time in Purgatory."